Over Lunch
by JustCatchMe24
Summary: Story of a picnic basket.
1. Chapter 1

Because I don't believe that our favorite Irish chauffeur only ever delivered lunch to Lady Sybil the one time. Or that he would have just taken 'no' for an answer. ;)

* * *

He's back again with lunch the following day.

Sybil is in only slightly better spirits. She at least gives him a smile when he walks in to the village hospital at noon, armed with a wicker picnic basket wafting enticing aromas in its wake.

Branson nods at Thomas, and places the basket on the nearest empty table. "Lunch, milady."

Sybil hands two pills to an officer with one arm bandaged, and does not reply. He looks up at her gratefully as he places them in his mouth. She hands him a glass of water, then walks over to where Branson stands watching her.

"Hello, Branson."

He inclines his head and smiles at her.

"You needn't bring me lunch every day," she says quietly, trying not to draw attention.

Branson has the audacity to shrug, a casual gesture that he wouldn't dare around the rest of her family. Sybil sighs in frustration, and opens the basket. There is a plate of sandwiches, a flask with what she assumes is hot tea, and a crumbly strawberry scone. Mrs. Patmore or more likely Daisy has been extremely thoughtful and even included two of Sybil's favorite gingersnap cookies. She sighs, her anger gone.

"Have you eaten, Branson?"

"Not yet, milady."

"I wish you'd stop calling me that. Do you want to join me for lunch? Mrs. Patmore sent more than enough for two."

"Wouldn't you rather eat with Nurse Miller?" He asks, referring to the daughter of a farmer from the estate, who has been Sybil's only friend at the hospital.

"No, I'd rather eat with you."

Branson smiles, picks up the basket, and walks back out the door, Sybil on his heels. Thomas watches from his post along the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

Sybil is quite dependent on her lunches with Branson.

He can't get away every day, if someone needs to take a trip to Ripon, or York, but long trips are getting less and less frequent these days, the price of gas so high in war time. On those days, he hands Sybil their usual picnic basket as he drops her off at the hospital in the morning.

"Where are you going today?" She'll always ask, a flutter of disappointment going through her as she imagines lunch alone, or with one of the other nurses.

"Not far, milady," he'll assure her. "I'll be able to pick you up in the evening."

On the days he is just occupied around the estate, he won't stop by the kitchens before he picks her up, and she knows he will be driving by later with their lunch.

More and more, Sybil finds that Branson is the only one who she can talk to about the things that are truly important to her. Her parents look at her nursing efforts as a youthful and hopefully shortlived phase, and Mary and Edith do not care about the war.

Branson is a gold mine of information about the war, and unlike some, he does not try to shelter her from hearing the horrific details. In return, she tells him about the men she treats, and he suppresses a shudder and politely lays his lunch to the side, his stomach churning.

"I'm so grateful for you, especially now, Branson," she tells him warmly one day. She reaches out and presses an ungloved hand against his sleeve for a brief moment. He does his best to appear unaffected.

"It seems I can hardly talk to my family these days. I feel like I don't belong in their world anymore."

"It's not wrong to have different dreams, milady."

"I know. It just feels... lonely. Nobody shares my dream, or even supports it."

"Well, I do. I think it's brilliant, what you're doing. And don't you ever forget that."

A pleased smile crosses Sybil's face, and the carefully cherished secret hope in his heart grows, just a little.


	3. Chapter 3

Something is different today.

Sybil is waiting outside the hospital when he drives up, and when she sees him, she rushes towards the motor. Branson hurriedly brakes - she doesn't even seem to care that she may be hurt, but after that terrible day in Ripon, he cares too much. He never wants to see her hurt again.

"Branson!"

"Milady, _careful_-"

She pulls the back door open, and climbs inside gracelessly, slamming it behind her. He turns to her in alarm.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"Oh, Branson, he's dead! I was so afraid... And now he's dead!"

He feels cold dread wash over him. He reaches a hand out to her, and she grasps it tightly in both her own as sobs start to overtake her.

"Who's dead?"

"Lt. Courtenay... Edward. Thomas and I had been helping him after he lost his eyesight. He didn't want to be sent away from here... Oh, we tried to tell Dr. Clarkson, but-"

She chokes, and pulls her hands away to wipe her cheeks. Tom gets down from his seat, and with a quick glance up and down the mercifully deserted lane, opens the backdoor and climbs in, closing it behind him.

The backseat feels strange, thrilling and intimidating at the same time. He takes a seat gingerly next to her, and puts a hand on her shoulder.

If Sybil is offended by him sitting in the backseat, or touching her, she doesn't show it. She turns a tear-stained face to him, and he tightens his grip on her.

"It is so very unfair. Our hospital is overflowing, and we don't have enough people, supplies or space to help them all. And yet this- this _damned war _won't end!"

"I know..."

"Cousin Isobel thinks we should convert Downton into a convalescent home, but my family is so against it. I wish they could spend just one hour at the hospital, see what I see! Why are they so blind, Branson?"

"Maybe this will make them see. Everyone needs to make sacrifices at times like these."

"You're right. We all need to play our part, don't we? Oh, but I wish I could have done more for poor Edward! I really should have- I should have fought Dr. Clarkson! Or gone to Cousin Isobel, or-"

"Sybil, don't. You'll tear yourself apart, thinking like that."

"I don't know how else to think. I feel as if-as if-"

"It was an innocent mistake. Thomas and Dr. Clarkson made it too. Nobody could have known-"

"I should have known, don't you see? I'm so- so afraid... I don't want to mess up again..."

Tom sighs, then reaches over to pull Sybil into his arms. She stiffens, but he can't think of the right words when she's in pain like this. He strokes her back and whispers, "Shh, darling, it's alright," until he feels her slowly relax against him, her tears wetting his neck. It would be a terrible moment for someone to peer inside the car, but neither of them can bring themselves to care.

Tom steps out five minutes later, and helps Sybil down. She straightens her scarf, and wipes her eyes on her handkerchief. She is not hungry for lunch today, so she turns to go in, calm and dry-eyed.

Tom watches her go, a very telling look on his face. He drags his gaze away as she disappears inside, and abruptly notices Thomas. The former footman is standing by the side of the building, smoking and staring at him, at them. Tom has no idea how long he's stood there for, and he feels panicked. They weren't doing anything wrong, except being friends, and on his part, being in love, so technically, he guesses they were doing everything wrong.

Tom stares back at the footman, thinking of how Sybil had said Thomas had been involved too. He feels sudden pity for the man, alone with no one to turn to for comfort. On an impulse, he reaches inside for the unopened picnic basket.

He walks deliberately toward Thomas, nodding his head when he nears.

"Hello, Thomas."

It's a sign of how upset he is, that he doesn't demand to be addressed by his military title.

"Have you eaten? I've got a delicious lunch of Mrs. Patmore's going to waste unfortunately. Lady Sybil wasn't hungry."

"You want me to join you?" Thomas sounds incredulous. Nobody voluntarily seeks out his company, least of all people who he has very incriminating evidence against. Perhaps Tom hopes to buy his silence with scones. He knows the chauffeur has been eating lunch most days with Lady Sybil, and doesn't know whether to be jealous or disdainful.

"Yes, if you want. I'm famished," Tom nods over at the somewhat isolated bench where he and Sybil usually eat. "We can eat there."

Thomas nods, snuffs out his cigarette, and follows the decidedly odd chauffeur away from the hospital where a dead man lies waiting.

* * *

**A/N: Bit uncharacteristic of Branson, considering how hesitant he was to touch Sybil thru Series 2. Oh well, I have been looking at way too many pics of AL lately, and his arms look so... inviting ;). I'm sure Sybil felt the same!**


End file.
